


Chechnya

by Belle_Evans



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Angst, M/M, Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-08
Updated: 2016-03-08
Packaged: 2018-05-25 12:00:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,876
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6194401
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Belle_Evans/pseuds/Belle_Evans
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This was the kink meme request here and below http://inception-kink.livejournal.com/4946.html?thread=6091858#t6091858 .<br/>also want sap/angst. D:</p><p>I want Eames being put away for basically forever (lots of little, petty crimes, all heaped on top of each other), and him telling Arthur that he doesn't have to wait... and Arthur waiting. (Or maybe he doesn't.)  I like happy endings but I won't turn down sad ones.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Chechnya

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted January 2012 for the Inception Anonymous Kink Meme. 
> 
> I could say I'm re-posting here in honor of Leo's win, but truthfully I have posted things in various LJ communities which is kind of a pain in the ass when you can't find your own fics, so I'm moving them over.

**After**

 

Arthur wakes in excruciating pain. His head hurts so badly he can barely open his eyes. His right hand is on fire. The fire races up his arm when he attempts to flex. A small noise to the right of the bed catches his attention. His .45 is on the night table in the drawer, but just the thought of reaching for it causes pain to radiate from wrist to fingertips. He could try to make a move with his left hand, but any intruder worth his salt will take him down before he can make that move. The pain in his head is marginally less than that in his hand so he chooses to open his eyes instead.

Thankfully, the burgundy blackout curtains are shut tightly. He thinks they were open, but ... He's grateful for the low light in the room. Everything reads a little blurry and still there are the small sounds, fabric shifting to his right. With great effort, he manages to turn his head.

What he sees gives him a moment of profoundly unwelcome deja vu.

"You punched the wall with your right hand. Twice," Dom says quietly.

Against his will, in spite of the great physical discomfort, Arthur instantly recognizes the soft concern in Dom's voice. It's his own tone from the day after the worst night of Dom Cobb's life. Arthur doesn't want that tone in any way associated with his life. With anything happening in his life. There is no way he is where Dom was.

He squints in Dom's general direction again. A bemused smile flicks across Dom's face as he gets up and heads for the bedroom door. At least there is a benefit if Dom sees parallels. It means he won't linger. In the Mal aftermath, Dom had thrown Arthur out of his Paris apartment multiple times.

"I'd tell you to call me if you needed anything, but apparently you don't need that encouragement. Don't be a stranger Arthur." Cobb lets himself out.

It takes Arthur either five minutes or one hour to get himself upright. There are four lavender pills on the nightstand beside a glass of water. He wonders if they are something Yusef is working on. He downs them all at once. Unfortunately, he can't sit and wait for them to take effect on either his headache or his damaged hand.

Levering himself up, Arthur soldiers out of the bedroom. He does what he should have done instead of getting wasted, drunk dialing Dom and punching holes into the walls of his home. Retrieving his cell from beneath the couch Eames insisted they buy at the Rose Bowl flea market, Arthur pushes number three on his speed dial. Eames' attorney answers on the fourth ring.

 

**Before**

 

Arthur can't breathe. He's not claustrophobic. Tight, small spaces have no effect on him, except. Except it's been three times a day, for seven days. Seven business days. Pre-trial motions, jury selection until finally, trial. After inception, elevators should have been a reminder of quick thinking, a job brilliantly done. Personal triumph. Instead, he felt homicidal. It didn't help that in the hot press of bodies there were three armed people. Two Los Angeles Sheriff's deputies and one LAPD detective. 

The only good thing about the press is that Eames is nudged right up next to him. He'd be close anyway, but under this circumstance it makes Arthur less uncomfortable. A calloused forefinger brushes across the back of his hand. It calms him marginally. He thinks that Eames' skill as a forger might have made him slightly psychic. 

The touch isn't much, but it temporarily eases Arthur's urge to take the situation into his own hands. Such ridiculously inefficient planning. What seems like hundreds of people all trying to go up at the same time, with only three elevators to convey them from the lobby of the Criminal Courts building to its upper floors. More galling because neither he nor Eames should be in this situation.

**& &&**

The knock on their door that morning hadn't been entirely unexpected. They'd been home for a few days. Dom had mentioned that he might bring the children around to visit. It was only as Arthur got closer to the front door that he noticed, through the picture window, one marked and two unmarked police cars parked in front of the house.

Still, he'd thought they had the wrong craftsman until he opened the door to an LAPD Detective and a warrant for Eames' arrest. And only Eames. There was no warrant for the house. Not that it would be such an issue. The weapons Arthur kept at home were as secure as they were unregistered. A false wall space that wasn't detectable, unless you had the original blueprints for the house, kept them hidden. There was also a safe which was undetectable to the naked eye. They kept about two hundred and fifty thousand dollars in cash on hand for a rainy day.

“Arthur, how long does it take to brew up a pot for heaven's sake -,”

“Eames,” Arthur took a step, a dream share reflex, alerting a team member of impending danger. But the police officers in their house weren't projections, and their guns would provide something a little more lethal than a kick. One of the uniforms grabbed Arthur and shoved him against the wall.

“Sir, don't interfere,” the Officer growled as he pressed one hand against Arthur's shoulder, his other hand hovering over his unsnapped holster.

“Gentleman, I'm quite sure there's been a terrible misunderstanding,” Eames offered. The accompanying sheepish smile, pure guile. When Arthur had left him in bed to start a pot of coffee, Eames had been naked. Now he was wearing dark trousers and a navy t-shirt. Eames hadn't come down the stairs completely unaware.

“Arthur, have you done something?” He plays the cluelessness. Arthur relaxes beneath the Officer's hand. Waits for Eames' lead.

“We have a warrant for your arrest,” The Detective begins. “Please place your hands behind your back.” Eames complies. And Arthur listens intently as Eames is mirandized.

“Do you understand these rights as I have read them to you?”

“Of course, ”Eames says smoothly. So, Arthur thinks, they're just going to play it out. It makes sense. When they find out Eames isn't a citizen, they'll likely want to deport him. Deportation would be a hassle, but that's something they can work around. As Eames is led out the front door, and the pressure on Arthur's shoulder lessens, Arthur asks, “Which division?”

“Downtown, Central Booking,” the Officer at his back responds. Later Arthur will think that it was the fact Eames was taken downtown instead of Northeast Division that kept him focused on ICE and deportation. He'll wonder for a long time whether or not he should have done something differently at the house to prevent all the things that came after. 

 

Arthur stares impassively at Eames' criminal defense attorney. The same attorney that got Dom out of the country when it was necessary. He's telling Arthur two things he hadn't known about Eames. Two things he'd rather not know. Not because they will affect the way he feels about Eames. Their relationship might not be as conventional as Mal's and Dom's had been, the only relationship Arthur has really ever seen up close and personal on a regular basis. 

For all their dream share work, Dom and Mal's marriage had followed a certain convention. They were rarely physically apart. Some of that had to do with the children, but as that was the case before the children, the truth is, that was simply Dom and Mal. Were that not the case, Dom would not have become the mess he had.

He and Eames do not live in each other's pocket. When they are together, they are together. The house in Los Angeles is theirs. There are flops in other cities, but the L.A. house is home. It doesn't mean they are always there at the same time. Though as Arthur considers this, he has to acknowledge that it is rare for either of them to be at the house when the other isn't. That's what the flops are for.

What makes them who they are to each other is the rock solid knowledge each has the other's back. Arthur can go months and once almost a year without seeing Eames, but that doesn't change. It doesn't matter that Eames slags him off sometimes, he gets his shots in as well. Those are just words. And more often than not they're true. If the worst thing Eames can say about him is that he lacks imagination, Arthur isn't worried. Eames has enough imagination for both of them.

Finding out that Eames' real surname is in fact Eames, that Eames is in fact a Jr., other under circumstances would have just given Arthur ammunition. But the attorney keeps talking. Apparently Eames is a dual citizen. The elder Eames was American. 

Instead of expulsion from the U.S. as Arthur had hoped, Eames has to surrender his passport, the real ones. Arthur can work around that. It's merely a matter of paperwork. But the attorney keeps talking. The surrendered passports are not enough to assure the prosecution of Eames' trial availability. The prosecutor has asked the judge to deny bail. The Judge denied that request, but the amount subsequently approved almost has the same effect as denial. 

The number is punitively high. Arthur does a mental run through of the available cash on hand. Not enough. Inception money would cover the shortfall, but it's still too soon to touch any of it. Not that he could if he wanted to as there is also a provision that the bail money's source be fully vetted. In some ways that's simply another paperwork issue, but there isn't enough time.

Saito is the only one with the infrastructure to pull something like that off in the real world. Everyone on the team is on a short list of people whose calls Saito will take. Still, within that group there is a hierarchy. The relationship Dom and Eames have with Saito is slightly more intimate than the one he has with the man. Dom before Eames. Eames carried him out of the fortress level, but Dom pulled him from limbo. Ariadne and Yusef fall beneath Arthur respectively. Arthur can't ask Dom to involve himself in this. The other man has only just gotten his life back together. Arthur will take care of this, this is his business.

As expected, the call to Saito is accepted immediately. The fact that Arthur's even placing the call cuts through having to convey the seriousness of the situation. The conversation that follows is awkward for him. His stakes have only ever involved jobs. If a source can't get him what he needs he simply moves on to one that can. But that's not an option, and that lack fumbles Arthur's words. He doesn't want to sound like he's begging.

Because Saito is Saito, he doesn't just get the bail money. He gets a solid, legitimate paper trail in the form of documentation from a Saito subsidiary. It is not traceable back to Saito. It extols Eames' virtue as a respected consultant. The subsidiary gives that as its reason to happily supply bail to “see Mr. Eames out of the present difficulty.” 

Eames comes out of County with a huge grin, looking none the worse for wear. He engulfs Arthur in a bit of a bear hug outside the facility. He does quite a bit more to him when they get home.

 

After, Arthur's head nestles against Eames' shoulder as Eames threads his fingers through Arthur's sweaty hair. Instead of letting it lull him to sleep as usual, Arthur focuses on staying alert. Eames' breathing hasn't shallowed as usual and his fingers are more deliberate in his hair. Arthur waits.

“My parents were, in diplomatic service, divorced when I was nine. Mum moved us to Blackpool. When I was eighteen I came back here for a summer. He and I didn't exactly get on. Decided to rough up the Eames name a bit, knock off some of the polish. Got into a thing with a some gits at a pub in Santa Monica. Got up to a lot of mayhem that summer. Then I shook the dust of America off my docs and went home.”

It comes out, not in a rush exactly, but in a way that doesn't allow Arthur to interject. Instead, he strokes his hand against Eames' taut skin. On paper that mayhem translates to multiple arrests, yet a suspicious lack of jail time. Eames and his father might not have got on, but Arthur sees intervention on his son's behalf on more than one occasion that summer. 

“That time in Jakarta -”. Apparently Eames has shared all he intends to about his eighteenth summer, about his family background.

Arthur remembers Jakarta. He's only been the one time. He and Eames had been circling each other, hadn't seen each other for a couple of months. Arthur had been in Singapore, Eames in Borneo. They'd both deemed that close enough for dinner in Jakarta and whatever came after.

Arthur had been mere steps from the Four Seasons Hotel when he was grabbed roughly by the wrist and yanked off the sidewalk. He'd had just enough time to feel irritation that the midnight blue linen jacket of his new suit was being additionally wrinkled by the manhandling. He'd given in to the local heat, chosen linen, gone tieless. Not his favorite fabric, but he'd gotten it as crisp as he could. More than any concern about who had grabbed him, Arthur remembers feeling disappointment that Eames wouldn't get to see him looking as crisp as he'd intended.

“Arthur.” Pressed up against the side of a building by the weight of a heavier body, Arthur realized he'd been grabbed by Eames.

“Arthur,” Eames had murmured again, close to his ear as one of his hands slipped under the suit jacket to stroke across Arthur's nipple. Through the rapidly wrinkling material of his shirt, Arthur had felt every whorl of Eames' thumb. His breath had stuttered.

“So lovely darling,” Eames had continued in a husky whisper. “I'm sorry I won't have the chance to get you out of this later. But seems I've got to go.” The thumb moving lazily across Arthur's nipple had moved up to stroke his throat through the open collar of his shirt. The mouth that had been at Arthur's ear was suddenly on his mouth. Gentle, almost chaste. Eames had whispered Arthur's name. Eames was a liar, but Arthur had heard a real apology, real regret.

He'd responded with his own whispered, “Okay,” and just let go. He'd pushed his hands up into Eames' close cropped hair, insinuated his tongue more deeply into Eames' mouth. Eames had equaled that passion and for a few heated moments they had been the only two people in the world. 

“I have to go.” 

His suit, wrinkled within an inch of its life, Arthur's hands had trailed out of Eames' hair, across the pulse point in his throat. Eames' thumb had brushed across Arthur's mouth, lingered. “Cheers, luv.” They hadn't seen each other for another four months after that.

&&&&&

“Mum rang me right before. She wanted to go to his funeral. Couldn't let her go alone. All those years, she still loved that git. Didn't matter that he...”

Arthur had always assumed Eames had gotten himself into some business related difficulty in Jakarta. It hadn't occurred to him, at the time, that Eames was a man with family considerations. Unaddressed slights. Regrets. He knows much better now.

“You've got quiet.”

“I'm getting my second wind, Mr. Eames.”

Arthur presses a kiss to Eames' mouth as he strokes his hand between Eames' legs. Eames presses into the touch. Just like the first time, like every time, his legs fall open easily for Arthur. That had come as a surprise to Arthur the first time they were together. He'd expected some of the back and forth, the pull they had professionally, in the everyday, to spill into the bedroom. He'd expected more sparring. But Eames had been open and into all the ways Arthur wanted to touch him.

Arthur strokes behind Eames' balls to his opening. They haven't used any barriers between them for several months. They'd done a perfunctory wipe down, put a towel over the wet spot. Their bed is big enough they'd just shifted a little. But Eames is still still wet, still loose and wanton for Arthur. Arthur presses his finger in, shifts up on his elbow and kisses Eames. Eames' hand tightens in his hair.

“Got the second wind have you?”

“Something like that.”

Arthur can admit, only to himself, that in the beginning he had niggling doubts about Eames actually wanting him. He'd entertained the idea that Eames was toying with him and once they hit the sheets, the seduction would be over. Eames' interest would be over. It's morphed into this instead.

He rolls on top of Eames, his cock replacing his finger inside. Eames draws up his legs to lock behind Arthur's back, to pull him in. Hold him. Sealed together palm to palm, mouth to mouth, Arthur pounds into Eames and takes what is undeniably his. They both sleep well after.

 

They had out maneuvered the prosecution on bail. The Judge denied the prosecution request for an ankle monitor, but they had prevailed on the trial date. Jury selection for Eames' trial for second degree murder begins three days after Eames makes bail. Second degree murder. Not the involuntary manslaughter the attorney hoped they could get to if they couldn't get an outright dismissal. 

Unfortunately the 'mayhem' of Eames' youth provided an actual opening for the prosecution to apply the felony murder rule to Eames' case. It would be a component of Eames' defense that he had been overcharged for the unfortunate, years delayed end of a bar fight when he was eighteen.

The seriousness of the charge rattles Arthur, but it doesn't seem to phase Eames. When he comes home from meeting with the attorney one day before the trial, he's all smiles and randy. He gets Arthur naked on the living room floor in record time. 

 

They've been in court for six days. It took roughly two and a half days to empanel a jury. It's the third day of trial. Arthur hunches in the corridor outside the courtroom. Eames' hand is warm and supportive on the back of his neck, which is ridiculous. It should be the other way around, but Eames has managed to remain unflappable through the whole process. Or at least he's doing a better job of appearing so than Arthur. Eames' thumb brushes a soothing circle. Arthur is grateful for the touch. They'd discussed it the day before jury selection began.

“Should we not?” Eames' hand had been resting lightly on Arthur's leg while the attorney explained voir dire. Arthur waved his hand between them to indicate Eames' hand on his leg and the tiny amount of space between them on the office couch.

“People aren't stupid,” the attorney smiled at Arthur. “You'll be there every day. And if Eames lies about this... If he denies something so obvious, so personal it says nothing good about his character. They might be more willing to let off a man who has a boyfriend. Moderate PDAs, a touch here or there, a held hand if you like. I wouldn't go out of your way to pretend that you aren't together. I'll have questions in the voir dire to mitigate the chances of getting homophobic jurors.”

There hadn't been enough time between selection and opening arguments for Arthur to do any substantial background checks on the jury or the judge. To find any leverage. It's a different dynamic working with the straight and narrow. Working outside the dreamshare community. The likelihood that anyone on the jury has anything Arthur can use against them is slim. And there simply isn't enough lead time to make something like that truly work. He can't afford for there to be any blowback on Eames.

Despite his penchant for very unconstructed suits with dizzying patterns, bold colors and the tendency to disparage Arthur's clothing in public, Eames knows how to put an ensemble together. It makes sense. As a forger those details lend authenticity to the replica. It shouldn't surprise Arthur that on the first day of court, he wakes to find that Eames has been up for at least an hour and already laid out what he thinks Arthur should wear to court. 

He opens his mouth to object vociferously only to discover once he's actually gets his eyes open that the ensemble isn't anything he wouldn't wear. He thinks he has worn it before, but at that first morning it escapes his mind when.

“Stop admiring your own clothes Arthur. We'll be late.”

&&&&&

Arthur brings their lunch in a black canvas bag with a black metallic thermos. Lunch he made the night before. There are restaurants near the courthouse, but Arthur sees no reason to put either of them through that. Like the courthouse corridor they are subject to running into not only jurors from Eames' trial, but from a multitude of others. They find an Asian themed park, with a dragon motif on it's wrought iron fence and replica pagodas. Though it's mere steps from the criminal courts building, it hasn't in the days they've taken lunch there, attracted very many people at all.

Park might be a too generous a term as there is practically no grass or trees and the pagodas don't offer much shade. The same woman has been in the park both times, on the same bench in the back corner. Her identification badge identifies her as a City Hall employee. She pays no attention to them as she reads her Kindle. They pay no attention to her as they unpack their turkey sandwiches on wheat, mixed greens salad and the black dragon tea Eames prefers. For some reason Eames thinks this is a reason to trail his finger into the open 'v' of Arthur's shirt and stroke across the visible skin.

“That's not exactly helpful.” 

“How about this?”

Eames leans forward until he can tug gently at Arthur's bottom lip with his teeth just before slipping his tongue into Arthur's mouth. Arthur doesn't think this is exactly what Eames' attorney had in mind. He has no idea about the jurors and for just a moment he doesn't care. He allows his hand to cup the back of Eames' head right at the fairly recently shorn hairline. 

A more than perfect relief from having to sit still in court while the prosecution painted a picture of an eighteen year old Eames, Arthur had never known. The tension from the morning court session dissipates just enough. He slides his tongue against his boyfriend's and thinks about an alley in Jakarta.

&&&&&

In the courthouse corridor, they are less than three feet away from a few of the jurors for Eames' trial. Everyone back from lunch, everyone trapped within conversational distance of each other waiting to be fetched by their assigned Sheriff's Deputy. They pretend not to see Arthur and Eames. Arthur and Eames do likewise. It's a little ridiculous.

After lunch the prosecution introduces two pieces of evidence that make Arthur's blood run cold. He schools his expression as much as he can. He knows that Eames' attorney argued to have both pieces excluded. “Nothing to worry about luv. The footage is blurry I don't even know why they're bothering. Grasping at straws I think.”

 

In the back of his mind, and not even that far back, he knows that Eames is bullshitting him. His standard operating procedure would certainly involve either talking or bribing his way into getting access. Perhaps he would buddy up to someone who might have seen the footage, or get Eames' attorney to tell, break privilege. The attorney is loyal to his clients to a fault. Arthur saw that with Dom, so he can't rely on the man to give him any information Eames doesn't want him to have. With his hands tied in a way he's not use to, he accepts what Eames tells him at face value, though he knows he shouldn't. 

It's the bar's cctv footage that does Eames in.

The taped testimony was powerful, but what Arthur knows will stay with the jury is that grin. The grin on the cctv that is the only thing Arthur recognizes in Eames' eighteen year old counterpart. It's well-satisfied, well-pleased. He's spent a fair amount of time trying to put that grin on Eames' face. Between them it usually turns up after they've 'shagged senseless'.

Unfortunately, the jury sees it as the exclamation point to the cctv footage of a drunken Eames punching the victim and kicking him in the head with his Doc Marten's several times once he was down. 

The cctv combined with what amounted to a deathbed declaration from the victim represents what anyone with half a brain would recognize as incontrovertible. The questionable memory/testimony of a victim, long comatose, who woke up with perfect recall of that night and remained fully lucid long enough to give his version of events was bolstered by Eames' recorded actions in a way the prosecution couldn't have achieved on their own. That afternoon the defense rests its case. The jury begins it's deliberations.

They manage to make it out of the courthouse before Arthur _explodes_.

“That's what you call grasping at straws. You said that the footage was blurry, that your face was obscured. You made it sound like nothing.”

“I guess I was mistaken.”

“Now is not the time for your bullshit.”

“Do you really want to have this fight in the parking lot, Arthur? One person in the family up on charges is enough, don't you think?”

It takes everything Arthur has not to punch him in the face. When they get home, he ignores Eames in favor of making phone calls. Eames is going to be convicted of second degree murder and Arthur can't dawdle anymore. He's waited too long. They have a day at most. He'd been working on getting Eames transport out of the country. There is a house in Blackpool that only Arthur and Cobb know about. Arthur is the only one besides Eames' mother who has ever spent more than a night there. Even if he can't get him out of the country, he can at least get him out of the state. Now. He may be able to finagle a border crossing, but everything works so much more slowly when up against real time. 

He's on the phone with a connection that has a contact in Tijuana when Eames takes the phone out of his hand. Large hands squeeze firmly around Arthur's wrists to keep him from making a play for the phone. Eames says a few quick words into the phone before disconnecting the call. He tosses the phone on the bed and pulls Arthur into his arms. Holds him just a shade too tight.

Eames has bulk on Arthur which he never really uses against him so Arthur doesn't fight the embrace. Maybe Eames has already made arrangements and is simply playing it close to the vest.

“Let's just be quiet for a minute.”

In the parking lot is the first time since the trial started that they've raised their voices to each other. As Arthur pushes his hands up under Eames' suit jacket he wonders if it would have been better for them to be at each other throats. He presses his face into the warmth of Eames' neck as the other man whispers, “Everything will be fine Arthur.”

 

Of course everything is not fine. The embrace morphs into them kicking off their shoes without losing contact. They collapse, tangled up with each other on their bed as the trial stress slides them into an impromptu nap. Eames wakes first at twilight. Using it to his advantage, he slips the buttons of Arthur's button down undone. By the time Arthur rouses, he's fully engulfed in the heat of Eames' mouth.

“Mmmm,” he moans. Still kind of sleep hazy, it niggles at the back of his mind that he should be doing something else. Something that is productive to fix the mess that he's allowed to happen around him. He prevents messes, but what Eames is doing at the moment feels so good. Maybe he can let this happen for just a moment.

The attorney calls at ten. Sunlight streams into their bedroom. It wakes both of them. They have an hour to get to court.

“We can be in Tijuana in a couple of hours.”

“Except when I'm not in court in an hour, they will issue a warrant. You're not really built to live underground. Get dressed we're not out of options yet. Wear the pearl jacket with that black stripped shirt you got from Harrod's. No tie. Nice to see a bit of skin in the court today.” The smile that accompanies the request is vintage Eames. Cocky. Charming. Arthur never had a chance

As the jury reads the verdict, Arthur's entire body goes cold. For a moment, he can't feel any of his limbs. Eames' attorney starts talking.

“Your honor. I'd like to ask the court to grant my client a few days to get his affairs in order.”

A few days to flee the country, Arthur thinks. As soon as they are out of the courthouse he'll call Dom, get them a car and just start driving. He can live underground if he has to.

“Your client has already had more than a few years to get his affairs in order. He's remanded to custody.”

Arthur's eyes dart from the attorney to the judge. To Eames. He realizes that this morning, last night was the last time. Acknowledges what he's known. What the judge had correctly pegged. Eames had been getting his affairs in order. Not for years, but since the arrest. The other man has been making memories. Controlling the texture of what was left of their time together. This is it. Right now. They discussed it in the attorney's office. But those were just words, logistics. The reality, Arthur feels like he's been stabbed in the stomach. Repeatedly, by Mal, with a dull blade.

They aren't married, or in a domestic partnership. Not that those things had been on the table. Maybe that's good now that they're looking at thirty years, a lifetime, in the wrong direction.

He can't help it. It's what he does. He makes a quick assessment of the Sheriff's Deputies, calculates how fast he could take the service weapon off either one of them. Only he's not dealing with projections. This level will not collapse and dead will be real dead. He'd never imagined himself a cop killer. His gaze settles on Eames again.

“Arthur,” the other man mouths with a tiny shake of his head.

Eames has probably read it all on his face. Clutching his totem, Arthur concentrates on this reality, the only one there is. “Arthur,” Eames whispers softly. The intimacy in this setting is disconcerting, but that's the best they're going to get from now on. There will always be someone watching now. 

“Eames.” Arthur likes to let his work speak for itself. That won't work in this instance. The 'work' has been abysmal. He'd allowed Eames to treat the situation like a lark instead of getting on the first available freighter out of Long Beach. He is unuse to relying solely on words, but he tries. He holds Eames' gaze. Tries to imbue Eames' name on his tongue with everything. 

“Eames.”

“Cheers, mate.” Eames grins in response. Arthur squeezes his totem until it hurts. 

 

**Now**

“Dom, says there's a job.” Arthur gives his lover points for trying to put up a bit of misdirection. But there is nothing that can direct his gaze away from the yellowing bruises around Eames' eye and the odd way he carried his shoulder when he came through the visiting area doorway. He slumps in the seat opposite the glass partition. The first five years all visitation is with the glass partition.

“What makes you think I'm going to be doing any jobs?”

“What are you going to do instead luv, show up here everyday for five years, ten. Infinity.”

“Don't be an asshole.”

“We had a good run, yeah? And I know that it's difficult for you darling, but try to use a little imagination. Imagine how utterly ridiculous that would be.”

“I've seen you naked Mr.Eames, there's nothing left worthy of imagining.”

Eames says nothing, simply drops his head and presses his fingers against the glass that separates them.

“ Arthur -.”

“I know there's a certain way of doing business in here, but you can't...the things you do can't be things that mean I don't get to see you. I need you to be okay Mr. Eames.”

“And I need you to keep working. The job's a good one. Very straightforward.”

Arthur can't help, but snort at that. “If they came to Dom, I doubt straightforward has anything to do with it.”

“Well then more opportunity for you to make it so. I don't think he'll take no for an answer. You didn't from him. Go back to work Arthur. It's no different than when we're working in separate countries. I could just as easily be in Chechnya.”

Eames' eyes dart around his accommodations. Smirks at the burly corrections officer in the corner. “Matter of fact it's almost exactly like Chechnya.”

“One minute, one minute,” the officer bellows. Arthur straightens his tie, gets halfway up with the intercom phone still attached to his ear. 

“I shouldn't wear out my welcome the first visit.”

“I love you, Arthur.”

He stops mid-rise. “Does it make me an asshole for saying that now?” Arthur falls back into his chair. He clutches the intercom phone, stares again at the bruising on Eames' face. His fingers itch to soothe.

“Depends on why you said it. If you said it to keep me from coming back -”

“I'm saying it because it's true.”

“There are things that definitely make you an asshole, Mr. Eames. This isn't one of them.”

He replaces the phone without ceremony, allows his fingers to brush briefly against the glass.

“Call Cobb.” Eames mimes from the other side of the glass as the c.o. motions him out of the chair. Arthur nods quick then walks briskly, barely stopping at security to retrieve his cell and watch. Moments later, he emerges back into the open air, breathes deeply. He's shaking. 

As other departing visitors stream past him, he punches a familiar number into his cell.

“Hey Dom, it's me. Yeah, just back from Chechnya. Nevermind. What have you got?”

Arthur's knees nearly buckle as he takes the first steps away from the prison toward his car. Gripping the phone more tightly, he concentrates on Dom's coded description of their next job.

 

Fin


End file.
